The Listener
by Dovahlok
Summary: Supplementary content for my story Companionship, detailing the backstory  and current exploits  of the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood.
1. 27 Second Seed, 4E 193

**A/N:** I couldn't find a way to fit this into Companionship, but I just love Beirir too much to let his backstory go unheard.

* * *

><p><strong>27 Second Seed, 4E 193<strong>

He hasn't bothered to cover his face. He wants his prey to know fear, to see the face of the one who will end his life tonight.

He walks through the village quietly, finally coming to the farm of Ergnir. The moons are high in the sky, and the lights within the house have been dark for quite a while.

Spying a guard in the distance, he slips behind the home, melting into the shadows. If there is one thing he is good at, it is disappearing, and in Falkreath, disappearing is ludicrously simple.

Carefully he slides through the foliage to the back door of the home. He pulls a lockpick silently from his footwrap, deftly maneuvering it in the lock. It is only a matter of moments before the door swings inward; he thanks the Divines that the hinges don't squeak, as most doors in Falkreath are so wont to do.

* * *

><p>Ergnir shivers as a cold breeze sweeps across his bedroom. The cold rarely bothers him; after all, he is a Nord, a hearty son of Skyrim. But there is something menacing on the wind—something ominous. He opens his eyes and gives a yelp.<p>

Standing over his bed is a tall young man with a shaggy mop of auburn hair, wearing simple beggar's woolens. He can't make out the lad's face, though; the young man stands before the window, the light of the moons at his back, a forbidding silhouette.

The young man holds a dagger in one hand and a leather-bound journal, its pages yellowing with age, in the other.

A rush of horror courses through Ergnir's veins as he understands.

"No," he says. "No, please…"

The young man tilts his head for a moment as though considering Ergnir's plea before squatting down next to the bed, his face mere inches from the farmer's.

"Is that what she said, too?" he inquires in a soft, soothing whisper. "Did she beg? Did she whimper? Was she scared?"

Ergnir shakes his head. "I don't…I don't know what you're talking about!" he gasps, terrified.

"Oh, really? Well then, it seems as though someone has tried to frame you, Ergnir. You see, I found a rather incriminating journal in your end table," he whispers, his words dripping with poison. He flips open the journal and reads aloud, his voice softly caressing each word.

_Another dream of her tonight, but the bitch lies with a different hound._

_She has given him a son. He has her eyes…or so I am told. A boy that should have been ours. Our happiness. Our life. But he stole her. Took her from me._

_Her betrayal grows with her swollen stomach. A second child she is to give him. Another stolen from me. She should have been mine, but she scorned me. We could have been happy…but now no one can be happy._

_Her eighth month wanes. I will send her to Sovngarde, and I will join her there. If we could not be together in life, we shall be together in death._

_The babe was born. A girl. Our daughter.  
>She slept in her room, alone. Tired. He took the girl, my daughter, and the boy, my son, to his brother's, and was gone.<br>__When she looked at me, I saw fear. I saw hatred. I felt…anger. She goes to Sovngarde, but I shall not join her. Her hatred has cost us everything.  
>We could have been happy, Brylina. But now I can be satisfied. I bathed my blade in your blood, and now you will never know the happiness of what you had. The happiness of what we could have been…<em>

The young man's voice remains remarkably level as he reads. When he snaps the thin book shut, Ergnir, shaking in terror, sees the blade that the young man holds. It is the one that was bound in wool with the journal.

"Fine craftsmanship," the young man murmurs. "Did Lod make it for you? Did he know what it was going into the world to do?"

Ergnir feels the cold tip of the blade against his throat, pricking the delicate skin harshly. He struggles for words, but none come.

"Is this the blade that tasted Brylina's blood?"

An edge creeps into the young man's voice. Ergnir's mouth hangs open as he tries to form words, struggling in vain against the panic that has closed its talons upon his heart.

The cold steel of the blade bites into his throat, and Ergnir finds himself gazing into Brylina's eyes once more.

"Give my regards to my mother," the young man snarls.

As Ergnir writhes in pain, blood running from the gaping wound in his neck, the young man sits down on the edge of his bed, flipping the journal open to an empty page. He smiles sweetly at Ergnir, dipping the tip of the dagger in his blood. The last thing Ergnir hears before the world goes dark is the scratching of the dagger upon the aged paper of his journal.

The young man lifts the dagger tip from the journal, wiping the blade clean on Ergnir's sheets. Then he stands, closing the book, and slips back into the night.

He revisits this journal, his souvenir, when they find the body the next day; he revisits it later, in dark nights, to run his fingers over the dried blood inscribed upon the page. The message he had written that night. The message that made him feel close to her once more, though he had lost her so long ago.

_Justice for you, dear Mother._


	2. 13 Sun's Dusk, 4E 193

**13 Sun's Dusk, 4E 193**

Today is Siri's thirteenth birthday. She tries to roll out of bed as silently as possible, so that maybe he won't hear her. She tiptoes carefully, barefoot, over the old wooden floorboards, allowing the ambient noise to swallow up the sounds of her movement. She scans the main room of the house, looking for him, but he is nowhere to be found.

She exhales. He's probably out hunting with Da. She moves toward the stewpot over the fire and is halfway there when out of nowhere…

"_Got you!_" he roars, leaping at her from her left. They tumble to the floor, wrestling briefly, until Siri manages to get the upper hand and pins Beirir to the floor by sitting on his back.

"You're mean," she says to him, sticking out her tongue. In response, he pushes himself up off the floor onto all fours, and she, startled by her brother's strength, leaps off his back. He stands up, brushes himself off, and grins at his sister.

"That's what big brothers _do_," he says. She responds by landing two solid punches on his shoulder before walking away to get her breakfast. He grimaces, rubbing the sore spot she has left. His little sister has quite an arm.

As she eats at the table, she wonders how Beirir can possibly hide himself so well. She wonders if it has anything to do with his trip to Riften a couple months ago.

* * *

><p>While Siri enjoys her meal, Beirir wanders outside in search of his father, who is hard at work tending to the grain. He grabs the sack of chicken feed and goes over to the chicken coop to feed the hens before he speaks.<p>

"How's the crop, Da?"

Thongar shakes his head. "Better than last year's; this one won't be blighted, at least. But I don't know that this will sustain us for another year."

Beirir put up the chicken feed, walking over to muck out the cow's pen.

"I'm still looking for more work," he says to his father. "I can work on the farm during the day, and then maybe I can do some work for Lod in the evenings. Or maybe Runil could use some help keeping up the graveyard."

Thongar looks up at his son. His eyes are weary, but he is proud of the young man standing before him.

* * *

><p>It is late afternoon when Beirir finishes his chores and walks into town to look for work. He is about to enter Lod's house to speak with the blacksmith when a small commotion in front of Ergnir's house catches his attention.<p>

He walks over, stopping behind the group of guards, but no one seems to notice he is there.

"Someone broke in last night…"

"Nobody's been in there since Ergnir was murdered last spring! I thought the place was pretty much cleared out, except for the blood all over the floor…"

"There's nothing in there to take."

A guard emerges from the door, holding a piece of parchment. Upon his approach, he holds it up for his fellows to inspect.

Beirir cranes his neck to get a better look at the paper the guard is holding up. All that is upon the page is a black handprint and two words scrawled in script.

_We know._


	3. 13 Sun's Dusk, Continued

**13 Sun's Dusk, 4E 193**

Quickly Beirir retreats from the scene. His eyes scan the rooftops and alleys for the person he is sure is watching him. He is so distracted that he doesn't notice Lod, and bumps right into the blacksmith.

"Oh!"

He bends down, picking up the tools Lod has dropped. As he hands them back to the smith, the man looks at him, surprised.

"Hello, Beirir. I didn't even notice you there!"

"I'm sorry, sir. I should have been paying more attention." He bows his head respectfully before walking on, continuing to survey the shadowy places and dark corners of Falkreath. He knows someone is watching, and he knows that his search is in vain; the black handprint on the paper can only mean one thing, and he knows that whoever is watching him is certainly gifted in the art of stealth in the same way he is.

He walks back up the road, past his home, out into the woods. He can hear the rustling of leaves in the trees, and wonders whether it is a breeze in the treetops…or something more sinister. His heart hammers with excitement; if someone is watching him, he might as well show off.

* * *

><p>She watches him disappear from her vantage point high in the trees and smiles.<p>

_So it's a game he wants_.

She drops through the branches with acrobatic grace, her movements barely stirring the leaves and branches, until finally her feet rest upon the ground. Sitting still, she listens for the telltale sound of crunching underbrush and scans the landscape for the slightest hint of movement. With practiced patience, she waits.

Suddenly a strong hand is clasped over the mask of her cowl, preventing her from making a sound. She sees the glint of a dagger in the sunlight and feels the sharp blade cut through her armor, the cold steel pressed against the sensitive flesh of her neck.

"How was that?" a voice breathes into her ear. He feels her smile and removes his hand, releasing her. She turns to face him, a glimmer in her eyes.

"Impressive," she says. "I didn't hear you coming at all."

The auburn-haired Nord shrugs as he sheathes his dagger. "I have spent quite a bit of time perfecting the ability to manipulate the minds of others," he says smoothly. She nods.

"I must say that I admired your handiwork with that fellow—what was his name? Ergnir?"

She can tell that her statement has caused him distress; the muscles of his neck tighten, and he licks his lips before speaking.

"So you know about that, do you?" he asks calmly, although underneath this façade he is disquieted.

"Oh yes. It is my business to know of such…matters."

"Then I suppose you are the one who left me that note in Ergnir's shack," he says. "But did you really think me foolish enough to return? I must admit that I am a bit offended."

"It appears I have underestimated you in more than one way," the masked woman says, sounding amused. "I apologize." She looks contemplatively for a few moments before he breaks the silence.

"What do you want from me?" he asks, a hand resting upon his dagger.

The woman chuckles, crossing her arms over her chest. "Well," she says, "that _is_ the question, isn't it?" A smirk lingers upon her face—he can see her eyes narrowed in a dangerous smile. "I have merely come to tell you that my family and I are intrigued by your…talents. We would like to extend you an inviation to join us."

She watches his face carefully. He appears at once tempted and repulsed by the offer, and is clearly unsure of how to respond. He looks vaguely troubled. After a few minutes, she speaks once more.

"You have a little sister, don't you?" she asks. "Cute little girl. How old is she? Twelve? Thirteen?"

Beirir's eyes narrowed and for a moment he looked as though he might pounce upon the woman. "What does my sister have to do with this?" he growls.

"Well, it's just that your farm seems to be…struggling. I hate to think of your younger sister growing up in poverty, traveling around Skyrim while your father looks for work. My line of work pays rather handsomely, you know," she says.

He looks at her guardedly, still not sure what to make of her offer. "I am not a murderer," he says coldly. At this, she chuckles once more.

"So what was Ergnir then? The amount of blood on the floor suggests that it was not an accident."

Beirir narrows his eyes.

"Revenge," he hisses.

The woman smiles once more. "But Beirir," she says. He flinches as she speaks his name. "That is what my business is all about. If you join us, you can be the avenger for those who cannot seek justice themselves."

Beirir's lip twitches. _An avenger…_

"Think of all the people like Ergnir," she continues. "The people who have escaped justice. The people who most of all deserve to be killed…and you can help. You can't tell me you didn't enjoy what you did," she adds, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "I have seen your souvenir. Vengeance taken; justice written in his own blood. Quite a trophy."

He looks up at her. "You've…seen that?"

"Why of course, dear," she says soothingly. "We have had our eyes on you since that night. It would be irresponsible of us to invite you into our family without knowing anything about you. Now come," she continues. "I think this is the perfect solution to your problems. It is a chance to hone your skills, to provide for your family…you can be the one to mete out justice that the system fails to assign."

Beirir has been staring at the ground. She is unable to make out his expression as she speaks. Finally he looks up. He wears a sly smile upon his lips. It is a look that she knows well, and she knows she has won.

"Come," she says. "I will introduce you to the rest of the family."


	4. 22 Morning Star, 4E 194

**22 Morning Star, 4E 194**

He glides into the Sanctuary silently, unseen by his brothers and sisters. He has just come back from a contract to eliminate a man in Eastmarch: the man had raped the daughter of a prominent citizen, but managed to escape punishment.

_But no longer,_ he thinks with a smirk as he winds his way silently through the sanctuary.

He turns the corner into the first chamber of the Sanctuary and sees that Astrid is bent over her table as usual. He moves forward, his breaths shallow and soundless.

A slight breeze shifts the papers on her table, and Astrid turns toward the Sanctuary's entrance, looking for the intruder. She sees nothing, though, and turns back to her work.

She starts, jumping back a pace. A figure is sprawled languidly across her table. She recognizes him instantly, but that does nothing to calm the surprise at his appearance out of thin air.

"You really are too good at that, Beirir," she says. The young man pulls his cowl off, revealing his cheeky smile.

"I have been practicing," he says, casually sifting through the papers on her table. "I took care of the scumbag in Eastmarch. Do you have any new work for me?"

She snatches the papers away from him, a playful scowl upon her brow.

"Not right now, unfortunately, but here's your cut from that last contract," she says, tossing a hefty coin purse onto the table between them. He picks it up.

"Not bad," he says. "What is this—three, four hundred septims?"

"Five, actually," Astrid says. "It seems that powerful families will pay quite handsomely for vengeance when they are wronged."

Beirir smiles and stands up, walking away to change into his street clothes before he returns home for the afternoon.

* * *

><p>Thongar gapes at the bulging coin purse his son has dropped on the table. It has been a long time since he has seen so much money. He looks up at his son curiously.<p>

"Beirir…" he begins, unsure of what he wants to say. "Where did you get this money?"

Beirir shrugs, walking over to the shelf and grabbing an apple, which he proceeds to shine on his shirt. He takes a sizeable bite, chewing for a moment before he speaks.

"I've been working," he says. "I've been running some errands for Lod. He needs someone to take his weapons to buyers across the Hold, and you know his little brat Iver isn't old enough for that yet. I've also decided to try my hand at alchemy—potions can sell for a fair amount of coin, if you know which ones to make."

The lies come to his tongue so effortlessly that it almost scares him. He holds his practiced poker face as his father counts the coins out on the table.

"There are five hundred septims in this purse," he says incredulously. "This is enough for me to purchase seeds for two years' worth of crops, with some left over!"

Beirir shrugs. "It's all for the farm."

Thongar stands up, giving his son a hug. "Son," he says, "stick with whatever you're doing. This money you've brought us is already going to help us get the farm through the next few years, and by then we should be able to turn a profit again." He pulls back, holding his son at arm's length, looking at him proudly.

"I wish your mother were here to see you today," he says with tears in his eyes.


	5. 4 First Seed, 4E 194

**4 First Seed, 4E 194**

It's like a sport.

He and his comrade, Nazir, have been stalking their quarry for days. This particular contract requires some finesse, some extra care, so Astrid has dispatched two of her most skilled killers for the job.

Beirir always enjoys Nazir's company. Though the Redguard can be harsh and critical of those he doesn't trust, he takes to the young Nord immediately. The two men, sharing one razor sharp wit, get along famously together, much to the chagrin of the more serious members of the sanctuary—Festus Krex, for example, and certainly the dour werewolf Arnbjorn.

Finally night falls, and they notice a small campfire in the distance. Beirir pulls on his cowl, shooting his companion a smile. Nazir nods, and Beirir vanishes into the darkness.

* * *

><p>The wind is rustling through the treetops as Cyronin settles down on his bedroll, cooking some wolf meat over the small fire he has built. The Imperial is a slight man, the top of his balding head shining in the firelight. He doesn't look intimidating in the least, but that is why Nazir and Beirir want to be extra cautious.<p>

Cyronin's eyes are a piercing yellow, and curved upward in a manner that make him appear as though he is constantly suspicious of his surroundings. If he is suspicious at all tonight, though, he doesn't show it, instead focusing intently on cooking his dinner.

He takes a bite of the meat and can't suppress a shudder as he swallows. He has never liked wolf meat, but damn it all if wolves aren't the only beasts in this backwoods part of Skyrim. He picks up a small twig and tosses it into the flames angrily. What he wouldn't give to be back in Cyrodiil, away from the bitter cold of Skyrim and the brutish dispositions of her inhabitants—to be back in civilized society, in a place where people don't question the empire. He wants to cross the border so he can escape from this province and all the people in it.

Especially those he has wronged.

He is certain that he can get across the border before the millwife's husband returns home and discovers what has happened, so he doesn't bother to take precautions as he settles down for the night.

Something jerks him awake suddenly. His fire is still burning, and the logs haven't shifted much; he hasn't been asleep for long. Suddenly he realizes that rough hands are holding him, his arms bound behind his back. Before he can protest, a dark figure steps up to the fire.

His blood turns to ice in his veins as horror seizes his heart.

_The Dark Brotherhood!_

The man behind the cowl is young; a Nord, judging by his complexion. His eyes are glittering, almost with glee, as he surveys Cyronin; then he looks up, to the man behind the Imperial.

"Is he secured, my dear brother?" he asks, his voice smooth and oddly calming. The voice that came from behind Cyronin was much deeper; the man laughed and affirmed that he was as he secured Cyronin to a tree before joining his companion in the firelight.

"So," the second man, a Redguard by the look of him, begins, "what shall we do with him?"

"Well the contract says that he raped a miller's wife. That's pretty vile," the Nord replies casually. "There are few things on Nirn that I hate more than a man who enjoys such an act."

"It wasn't rape, she came onto me!" cries Cyronin, straining against his bonds.

The lanky Nord crouches down, and Cyronin gets a good look at his eyes. They are deep blue, and surprisingly gentle; the softness in the Nord's eyes evaporates, however, as he fixes his gaze upon the Imperial's.

"I have a younger sister, you know," he says. "She's almost fourteen, and she means the world to me."

"Uh-oh," smirks the Redguard, his eyes twinkling as though he knows exactly where this is going.

"So?" stammers the Imperial. "It's not like I crossed paths with your sister!"

The young Nord shakes his head and stands once more with a shrug.

"I don't think he understands, brother," he says with an exaggerated sigh. The Redguard shakes his head in mock weariness as the Nord returns his attention to his prey. The Nord man unsheathes a dagger from his belt, running a finger along the blade with a nasty sideways glance at the Imperial.

"Want to know what I would do if it _had_ been my sister?"

* * *

><p>Arkved is growing tired of trekking through the wilderness, but he with a sigh he remembers that he is duty-bound to accompany the Justiciar, Calindil, until they reach Solitude once more. Calindil is a severe fellow with absolutely no sense of humor; accompanying him anywhere is always more of an ordeal than it needs to be.<p>

Arkved sighs. If only Undil, Arkved's brother-in-arms, hadn't been killed in the Rift; now here he is, with no comrade with whom to converse.

The two Altmer walk silently for a long while before Calindil stops suddenly.

"What is that?" he asks, pointing to the smoldering remains of a campfire and what appears to be a somewhat-overturned campsite. Arkved sighs again, knowing that that is his cue to investigate. He pushes past Calindil, approaching the scene.

A moment later he turns back, falling to his knees and heaving, emptying his stomach onto the ground. As Calindil looks past him, he realizes what it is that has incapacitated his associate in such a manner.

There, on the ground, lies the body of an Imperial man; his hands are bound to a tree behind him, and his throat has been laid open so gruesomely that Calindil isn't sure how his head has remained upon his neck. He flinches and turns away as he realizes that, in the course of what appears to have been rather brutal torture, the man was castrated. Despite his years employing harsh interrogation tactics for the Thalmor, the Justiciar feels his stomach weaken, and he and Arkved stumble hastily through the trees, back to the main road, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the horrific site as they can.


	6. 13 Sun's Dusk, 4E 194

**13 Sun's Dusk, 4E 194**

Beirir has been out of town for days. He has been running for a long time, but still has a great distance to traverse before he arrives back in Falkreath. Despite the late hour and his exhaustion, Beirir picks up his pace—he can see Riverwood in the distance, and Riverwood is not more than six hours from Falkreath. He can make it there by dawn if he keeps up a fast pace.

He arrives back just as the sky is beginning to grow pink and opens the door to the farmhouse as quietly as possible. He knows his father is already awake, but he doesn't want to rouse Siri.

He puts his rucksack down on his bed and returns to the main room to have a breakfast of bread and vegetable soup. His father is sitting across from him, and the two men eat in silence, enjoying the peaceful early morning.

Siri rises two hours past sun-up and begins immediately on her chores. Since Beirir has other work now, she is in charge of feeding the livestock and helping her father tend the crops. The moment she steps outside, an unseen figure grabs her, hoisting her up over its shoulder and running around the fields.

"Happy birthday, baby sister!"

It is Beirir. She doesn't know where he acquired the uncanny ability to disappear like that, and when he finally reappears, she punches his shoulder soundly. He rubs at the sore spot.

"I don't know how you do that, but it's _weird_," Siri says, sticking her tongue out at him. He returns the sentiment, and soon the siblings are neglecting their chores, instead making faces at one another.

"It's not _weird_, it's _magic_," her brother responds, feigning offense. He holds out his hand. "Watch," he says excitedly.

At first Siri sees nothing; soon, though, a tiny pinprick of light appears in Beirir's palm, and soon it is a swirling ball of purple light, studded occasionally with tiny sparks of orange, that takes up Beirir's entire palm.

"What do you—"

"Shh," Beirir says. "Just watch."

He wraps his fingers around the magic in his palm; it looks as though he is actually grasping a solid object. He concentrates very hard, closing his eyes, and a moment later he disappears.

Siri starts. "Beirir, where did you go?" she asks, reaching out to where he had been a moment before. As she steps forward, she feels her brother's strong hands grasping her waist. He lifts her off the ground easily, throwing her over his shoulder once more, and dispels his invisibility.

"Brother, that's _incredible!_" Siri cries, wriggling free of Beirir's grasp. "Will you teach me?"

He flashes a roguish grin in her direction before sauntering toward the cow's pen.

"In time, dear sister," he calls.

* * *

><p>Dinner tonight is Siri's favorite: Elsweyr fondue. She loves to dip bread and pheasant meat into the melty cheese and watch it drip back into the bowl—and because it's her birthday, her father lets her, despite all the bread crumbs that wind up in the cheese.<p>

Late that night the small family sits by the hearth, enjoying the crackling of the flames and the welcome heat. At last Thongar stands up, walking over to one of the cupboards, and pulls out a long, thin package bound in brown paper. He hands it to her, speaking as she holds it. The package is deceptively heavy, and she wonders eagerly what is inside. She tears the paper enthusiastically, and her eyes widen in disbelief.

"I decided it's about time you have a proper weapon," her father says as Siri holds the beautiful ebony dagger up in the firelight. "Wandering around in Falkreath can be dangerous, and I think you've outgrown that rusty iron dagger you carry around. Happy birthday, sweetheart," he says, and Siri leaps up, hugging her father. She knows this blade must have come at considerable expense to her father—ebony is not a cheap metal to acquire, nor is it the easiest to smith.

"Siri, this is my present," says Beirir once she is sitting down once more. He holds out a much smaller package, wrapped in the same brown paper; she unwraps it more carefully than she did her father's gift and stares in disbelief for a moment before looking up at her brother.

"But…Beirir, this is your Amulet of Talos!" she exclaims. He smiles at her with a shrug.

"Talos has protected me all these years," he says. "But I'm not worried about myself anymore. I am asking him to protect my baby sister now."

She holds the amulet up reverently before the fire, admiring its silhouette against the dancing flames. The chain snakes through her fingers as she runs her thumbs across the designs engraved on the pendent. Gently she puts it on; Talos's emblem rests just beneath her collarbone as she looks at her brother. As she speaks, tears begin to run down her cheeks.

"I will do my best to deserve this, brother," she says softly. He stands up, embracing his little sister.

* * *

><p>That night, before he goes to sleep, Beirir slips into the tiny shed behind the house. It is always locked up tight, and houses the family's shrine to Talos. He kneels before the symbol, bowing his head.<p>

"Talos," he says finally, "please grant Siri your blessing and protection."


	7. 21 Evening Star, 4E 194

**21 Evening Star, 4E 194**

The afternoon sun is shining happily down on Falkreath, reflecting off the thin layer of snow on the ground, as Beirir walks to the smithy. He has been out of town for a week delivering weapons in the hold, and wants to see if the smith has any other work for him.

Lod spots Beirir coming up the road and waves enthusiastically, calling out to his assistant. "Ah, Beirir! Good afternoon, lad. The deliveries went smoothly, I trust?"

"Indeed!" he replied, gesturing to the satchel at his side. "I've brought back all the coin you are owed as well."

Beirir approaches the forge, swinging the satchel off his shoulder and kneeling on the ground. He pulls out a few bulging coin purses before closing the satchel once more and surrendering the money to the blacksmith.

"Wonderful," says Lod, who proceeds to toss Beirir the heaviest coin purse. Beirir looks up at him, surprised.

"Sir?" he asks, confused.

"That's your cut," says Lod with a warm smile on his face. "You've been running all over Falkreath for me, delivering weapons even in this winter weather." The smith turns back to the forge, pulling a chunk of red-hot steel from the fire and beginning to hammer it out on his anvil.

Beirir slips the coin purse back into his bag. "Is there anything else I can help you with?" he asks.

"No, I'm actually going to take the rest of the afternoon off and take Iver hunting this afternoon," Lod replies, looking over his shoulder. "I can't believe the boy's sixteen already. Seems about time I taught him to put a weapon to good use." Beirir smiles blandly and nods. Iver has always seemed like a milk-drinker to him, and the boys have never gotten along.

"Well, let me at least do some work while you're gone," Beirir says, setting his satchel down. "Do you have any orders in right now? I can at least start the preliminary work for you."

Lod dunks the steel he's working into the basin, steam hissing as the metal cools rapidly in the water. He turns to face Beirir.

"Son, if you want to do some work for me, I'll pay you for your time," he says. "I've got a list of orders on my kitchen table if you'd like to run in and get 'em for me."

Beirir nods, unable to keep the smile off his face. He opens the door to Lod's home, stepping inside and making a beeline for the table in the center of the room.

"Why are you carrying _that_?"

Disdain drips from Iver's voice as he saunters into the room. He is holding an apple and frowning at the Elven dagger hanging on Beirir's belt. Beirir glares at the blacksmith's son—so unlike his father Lod, who is one of the kindest men Beirir has ever met.

"What do you want, milk-drinker?" Beirir growls as he picks Lod's documents up off the table.

"_Don't_ call me that. _You're_ the one using an Elven dagger," the younger Nord says angrily.

Beirir walks up to Iver, taking the apple out of his hand and biting into it.

"Your father made it for me," he says before turning away to bring the paperwork to Lod.

* * *

><p>The sun has long since set, but Beirir is still slaving away over Lod's forge. Finally, with a sigh of satisfaction, he finishes preparing the last chunk of steel. He sets his work aside for the night and turns back to his satchel, pulling out the contents: an ingot of black metal, a few strips of leather, and a Daedra heart.<p>

He scans the town to make sure that the rest of Falkreath's inhabitants are in their homes before beginning. He doesn't want anyone to see what he is doing. Gently he places his ingredients on the edge of the forge, using the bellows to stoke the flames. He works the metal first, shaping the blade and the handle, crafting it all as a single, solid piece.

While he is shaping his creation, he hears the cry of a wolf in the distance. The moon is full tonight. He smirks, wondering if Arnbjorn is out on the hunt.

When the blade has taken its shape, Beirir takes a deep breath, picking up the Daedra heart and wiping the blood off the side of the forge, into the flames. The fire turns an intense red as the droplets of blood hit the coals, but soon turns back to orange. With bated breath, he throws the Daedra heart into the forge.

The flames turn a deeper red, and Beirir watches as the blood snakes its way over the coals, toward the ebony resting in the flames. Amazingly, the blade he has created seems to soak up the Daedra blood. He has read about Daedric smithing, but to see it for himself—he is completely captivated.

Slowly the fire dies down and returns to its original orange once more. He pulls his creation from the fire; when it is cool enough for him to touch it once more, he binds the handle with leather strips to give it a comfortable grip.

It is a wondrous and formidable-looking weapon. In the darkness of the night, he can see an eerie red glow emanating from the blade. He has never seen a more beautiful dagger in his entire life.

Quietly he wraps the blade in an oiled cloth, stowing it away in his satchel once more. He starts tidying up around the forge, making sure to scrub the bloodstain on the forge away with a dirty rag. Just as he finishes, he hears footsteps approaching: Lod and Iver have returned from their hunting trip.

Beirir waves to Lod, who is holding a torch. He notices that the man doesn't look happy, and watches as Iver walks into the house without a word.

"I see you've been hard at work," comments Lod, his face relaxing into a smile as he approaches Beirir. He gestures to the iron and steel staves on the ground. "Looks like you had more success than I did this afternoon."

"Did the hunting lesson not go well?" Beirir asks, trying to sound sympathetic. In reality though, he is not surprised, and can't summon a feeling other than disdain for Lod's son.

The blacksmith runs a hand through his hair with a sigh. "We'll just have to try again soon. The boy's just so clumsy sometimes. I'm fairly certain he scared off every deer in the hold," he mutters. He shakes his head, producing a coin purse from his pocket. "Here," he says. "For your work."

The young man accepts the gold, thanking Lod for the opportunity to work at his forge. As the blacksmith watches Thongar's boy disappear into the darkness, he wishes secretly that his son were more like Beirir.


	8. 25 Morning Star, 4E 195

**25 Morning Star, 4E 195**

The Bosmer paces before the fire, waiting. It has been two days since she first performed the Black Sacrament; the eerie effigy sits still in the other room, blood staining the floor, candles throwing odd shadows across the walls. She wonders when the assassin will arrive.

The hour grows late: it is well past midnight, and the fire burns lower. The flames have all but consumed the logs in the fireplace; the fire burns very low, and soon she will turn in for the night. As she rises from her chair and closes the window, she hears the logs in the fire crack, finally yielding to their weakness. Soot settles on the floor; as she turns to sweep it up, a voice breaks the silence in the room.

"Aranwen," he says, his voice smooth and sweet as honey. The Bosmer starts at her name, turning to the chair she had deserted. There, seated in her chair with his feet propped up on the small table next to it, is a man clad in black and red armor, his face covered with a cowl. The dagger on his belt glows eerily in the dim room—the light it gives off is a steady red, deep as the color of blood. It is like no dagger she has ever seen before in her life, and is truly the blade of an assassin.

"Are you…" she begins tentatively, faltering for a moment before continuing. "Are you here to answer my supplication?"

The assassin takes an apple from a bowl on the table, shining it on his armor and admiring it in the dim firelight. His blue eyes rest on her countenance.

"A soul is owed to the Void," he says. "I am here to ensure that Sithis receives his due."

The Bosmer woman, Aranwen, takes a deep breath, as though preparing herself for what she is about to say.

"There is a woman," she says. "In Helgen. I want her dead. I'll pay you handsomely, of course," she adds, quickly turning to a chest in the corner and pulling out a bulging coin purse.

"And how will I know which woman I'm looking for?" he asks, standing up and taking the coin from the Bosmer. He stands more than a head taller than the small woman, and a cold shiver runs up her spine as she tries to force words from her throat.

"She—she's married to Torolf. Their house is right on the left as you enter through the western gate."

The assassin looks appraisingly at the woman for a few long moments, eyes narrowed, before he turns away.

"Consider it done," he says.

* * *

><p>"Haming!"<p>

The four-year-old boy smiles widely at his father as the man scoops him up. Torolf runs up the path, his son giggling in exhilaration as he soars through the air in his father's arms. A few moments later, Torolf accidentally bumps into a young Nord, who drops his rucksack on the ground in surprise. Torolf immediately sets his son down, begging the forgiveness of the young man, whose food is spilling out onto the path. A red apple rolls away; Haming picks it up, trotting back over to the young man and holding it out, offering it back to him. The Nord smiles, tousling the little boy's hair, before standing once more and offering his hand to the boy's father.

"Forgive me," the young man says. "I was not paying attention to where I was going."

"It is I who should be apologizing," Torolf countered, taking the young man's hand in a firm handshake. "My son and I were just playing around. I should have been more aware of my surroundings. My name is Torolf," he continues.

"Mine is Audens Sicarius," the young man replies with a smile, his eyes sparkling. "It's very nice to meet you!"

"Audens, eh?" Torolf says curiously, hoisting Haming up and holding him on his hip. "Isn't that an Imperial name?"

The Nord chuckles as though he has been expecting this question.

"Yes, in fact," he says. "I was born in Skyrim, but spent my infancy at Honorhall. I was adopted by an Imperial family before my second birthday, and was raised in Cyrodiil—Cheydinhal, you know."

"Ah! Well, what brings you to Helgen?" Torolf asks. "Passing through to somewhere more consequential, I'm sure."

"I'm traveling to Whiterun, but I'm actually here looking for the inn," Audens says. "It's growing a bit late, and if the man I met down the road was correct, I won't be able to make it anywhere else before nightfall. I figured that I might as well stay in the inn tonight and strike out early in the morning."

Torolf's warm smile broadens. "Well, there's no need for you to pay any coin to stay at the inn," he says. "Come, we've a spare bed upstairs for visitors, and my darling wife Runa always cooks far more than the three of us can eat." Audens's face lights up at Torolf's offer, the man's generosity coming as a complete surprise.

"That's awfully generous of you," he replies. "But I couldn't stay for free. Do you have any work that needs to be done around your home? I'm rather handy with a hammer if you need any repair work done."

The two men begin walking back toward Torolf's house, Haming playing with his father's hair while his father conversed with Audens.

"Actually," Torolf says, "there is one thing—but it's up on the rooftop, and I couldn't ask you to take care of it."

Audens waves a hand dismissively, his deep blue eyes shining enthusiastically. "I insist," he says. "Back at home I've been the go-to man for this kind of thing since my thirteenth birthday."

They arrive at Torolf's house, and the Nord sets his son down. The little boy rushes eagerly into the house, calling excitedly for his mother.

"Well…" says Torolf, looking upward at the roof, "there are three loose shingles up near the top of the roof, and water comes in every time it rains. Do you think you could climb up there and nail them back down properly, so the rain won't come in?"

The young Nord brushes his messy auburn hair out of his face with a smile.

"Consider it done!"

* * *

><p>Dinner that night is fantastic: because they have company, Runa decides to cook a beef and carrot stew—a hearty meal that leaves Audens feeling stuffed.<p>

"Thank you so much for your hospitality," he says as he stands to clear the table.

Torolf puts a hand on the lad's shoulder, pushing him gently back down into his seat. "It's our pleasure," he says with a smile, taking Audens's plate.

That night, Runa goes up to bed, and Audens and Torolf sit beside the fire, each Nord holding a mug of mead.

"Thank you for helping me out with the roof," says Torolf, taking a gulp of his drink. "I've been meaning to get that done for a long time, but ever since I took a nasty fall off a horse last summer, I've had a hard time climbing up to the rooftop."

Audens shakes his head. "It was nothing at all. You and your wife have been generous enough to open your home to me for the night—it was the least I could do to help you with your roof!"

Torolf smiles, taking another deep draught of his mead. The two men sit in silence for a long time before Audens speaks again.

"I will have to leave early in the morning," he says, setting his mug down on the table. "Please make a point of thanking your lovely wife for allowing me to partake of her delicious cooking. If I may say, she is a gem of a woman."

Torolf smiles at his guest. "I love her so," he says, looking into his mug, now mostly empty. Perhaps the mead has loosened his lips, or perhaps it is the effect of Audens's smooth disposition, but he finds himself speaking more openly to the young Nord than he would under normal circumstances. "Before I met her, I was a bit of a lost soul…I knew lots of women. Seemed I was breaking a heart every other week. The last woman I was with, Aranwen—a Bosmer—" he faltered for a moment.

Audens leans closer, shifting his position in the chair slightly. His body language and his deep blue eyes are very calming, putting Torolf's qualms to bed at once.

"I didn't love her, but she loved me. She was very clingy, and I couldn't deal with that. I left her, rather harshly, and I regret that. But after she was out of the picture, I met my dear Runa…she straightened me out, taught me how to love. She's given me a son, too. And more love than I deserve."

Torolf is clearly feeling the effects of his mead now. Audens places a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"She's lucky to have a man like you," the young Nord says. "And it sounds like you are lucky to have her." Then he stands and stretches, setting his half-empty mead mug on the table. "It's getting late," he says, "and I should probably get to bed. But I want to thank you for all you've given me. Your generosity and kind-heartedness will not be forgotten."

Torolf nods with a smile, missing the odd glint in Audens's eye as the young man turns away and retreats to the guest bedroom. Pushing himself wearily to his feet, Torolf returns to his room to crawl into bed beside his beloved wife.


	9. 26 Morning Star, 4E 195

**A/N:** Fun fact - "Audens Sicarius" means "Daring Assassin" in Latin :)

* * *

><p><strong>26 Morning Star, 4E 195<strong>

He is standing over the bed, but they do not know he is there. A lone candle burns in the corner of the room, and it illuminates her face as she sleeps peacefully beside her husband—the man who loves her, and whom she loves. He thinks of her small son in the next room: would he condemn young Haming to growing up without a mother, to suffer as he himself had in his childhood?

But all of these reasons are moot. As soon as he saw her, the moment he met her that afternoon, he knew he would be unable to kill her.

The woman he watches in the firelight looks exactly like Siri. Well, perhaps not exactly; Runa is probably about twenty-four, and Siri is only fourteen. But her hair is the same auburn, her eyes the same blue. She has the same button nose. At dinner, when she spoke to her husband, he could see the same knowing smirk on her lips.

He blows out the candle. He knows what he must do.

* * *

><p>Aranwen rises with the sun. She doesn't want to be asleep, lest she miss the gossip that she is sure will be reaching her ears soon. After all, word of a brutal murder is sure to spread like wildfire through the hold.<p>

As she wanders around outside, plucking flowers and grabbing butterflies for some potions, she sees a young Nord with a scruffy auburn mane wandering up the main road. Trying not to seem to eager, she follows the little path from her house down the hill, positioning herself closer to the road in case this young man carries gossip from Helgen.

But he walks by without a word. He barely acknowledges her existence. She waits for him to make his way up the path a little farther before looking after him, but he is gone.

An hour elapses, and, slightly perplexed, she returns to her home, opening the door and stepping inside.

Her heart stops as she registers that there is someone else in her home, but her heartbeat slows once more as she realizes that it is none other than the assassin she hired to kill Torolf's wife. She smiles and steps toward him.

The next thing she knows, she is on the floor, pain lancing through her body, hands gripping the Daedric dagger buried to the hilt in her gut. The assassin looks down at his prey, eyes glittering.

"Wh—what?"

She can only manage the one word before darkness envelops her.

* * *

><p>The sun is setting as the door to the sanctuary creaks open. Astrid looks up in time to see a disheveled, tired Beirir appear before her, his invisibility spell having worn off. She gives him a knowing smile as she sets her papers down, skirting the edge of the table, walking toward him. He tosses the gold he has been carrying onto the table.<p>

"You've gone rogue on us," Astrid says, paying no mind to the money, her lips curled upward in a smirk. Beirir remains silent, his blue eyes holding Astrid's gaze without fear. Her smirk grows wider, her eyes narrowing. "I heard about a terrible misfortune…a poor Bosmer woman, killed in her own home by an anonymous murderer." She raises her eyebrows pointedly at him before turning back to her paperwork. "Funny, you know…that woman whose contract you were sent to fulfill…I could have _sworn_ she was a Bosmer. Aranwen, wasn't it?"

"What do you want, Astrid?" he asks angrily, unable to suppress his emotions any longer. "An _avenger_, you said. _That's_ what you said I would be. But that…_wretch_…she wanted me to slaughter an innocent housewife so that she could win back the man's love." He slams his fists down on the table, his eyes burning. "I am not a _murderer_, Astrid, and I have _no _sympathy for the excuse of the scorned lover. So I paid Sithis's due with that bitch's blood instead." He turns away, grasping his head in his hands, resting his forehead against the cold stone of the sanctuary wall. "I couldn't condemn their little son to grow up the way _I_ did, without a mother. I couldn't condemn Torolf to the pain my father suffers every day—knowing his wife was _stolen_ from him. It's _wrong_, Astrid. Am I to be no better than Ergnir?"

Astrid places a surprisingly gentle hand on his shoulder. She can feel Beirir's body trembling as he tries to suppress silent sobs.

"Hush, dear brother," she coos, "I take no exception to your decision. I am merely amused by your actions. It sounds as though justice triumphed today: a happy family remains intact after a brush with death, and a lonely and miserable Bosmer is freed from the burden of the mortal coil. Now go home, get some rest. I've heard rumors that some poor sod over in the Reach has performed the Black Sacrament, and I need you well-rested so that I can send you out there in a few days to do what you do best."


	10. 27 Morning Star, 4E 195

**27 Morning Star, 4E 195**

Night has settled heavily upon Falkreath. The stars have been out for several hours by the time Beirir returns home—it is well past midnight. He is exhausted, both emotionally and physically, as he stumbles into the house.

As he makes his way to his room, he stops by Siri's door. She is sleeping peacefully, one arm over her head, the other resting on her abdomen, her breathing steady and deep. He smiles, leaning his head against the doorframe for a few minutes before he finally walks back to his room.

He pads back into his room silently, opening the trunk atop his dresser and placing his armor and knife inside before covering them with a couple of his rough-woven farm tunics and some potions. He shuts the lid as quietly as he can, locking it carefully before slipping into bed. Almost as soon as his head hits the pillow, he is asleep.

* * *

><p>Siri rises at sunup. After eating some bread with tomato stew for breakfast, she runs back to her room, pulling on her hunting boots and her fur armor before she grabs her bow and arrows.<p>

She pushes Beirir's door open slowly, peering around the edge to see if he has awakened yet. No such luck. Her big brother is lying facedown on his bed, his tunic discarded, covered to the waist by his blanket. His lean, sinewy back is exposed and bathed in the early morning sunlight, and Siri wonders when he got all those muscles. She doesn't give it much thought, however, instead sitting down on him.

Beirir jolts awake, rolling over and accidentally tossing Siri to the floor.

"What on—"

He hears the nasty crack of her head against the wood and realizes where he is. Leaping out of bed, he kneels next to his sister, helping her up.

"Siri!" he says, rubbing a sweaty palm on his trousers before he helps her sit down on his bed. She is holding the back of her head, fighting back tears. "Siri, I'm so sorry! You surprised me!"

He stumbles across the room, his legs still clumsy with sleep, and unlocks the chest sitting atop his dresser. He pulls out a healing potion, handing it to his sister, but in his worry he forgets to lock it. As she drinks the bitter potion, he smoothes down her hair, feeling the spot where her head hit the floor. There is a bit of a bump, but nothing too serious. He sits down next to her.

"Sorry," he says. "Looks like you've got a bit of a bump—you should probably stay around the house today."

Siri looks at him resentfully. "But we were supposed to go hunting!" she says. "Remember? You said you'd take me and see if we could try to kill a bear!"

Beirir laughs a little, putting an arm around his sister's neck and pulling her in, mussing her hair. "Rest up today, and tomorrow, I _promise_ we'll go bear hunting!" he says. She pushes her way out of her brother's grasp, a smile on her face.

"I'm gonna hold you to that!" she says.

* * *

><p>Late afternoon arrives, and Beirir wipes the sweat from his forehead with the old rag he keeps in his pocket. Although the air is still frosty, he is a Nord—naturally resistant to the cold—and the work he has been doing has been strenuous. He places one last piece of wood on the block, bringing the axe down hard and splitting the wood cleanly in two. Satisfied at the heap of firewood his efforts have left, he turns away, leaning the axe on the stump, and wanders back into the house.<p>

Siri is sitting at the table reading when he walks in. A glance at its spine tells him that she is reading the book on illusion magic that he bought her—_Before the Ages of Man_—and he smiles involuntarily. He wanders to his room and changes his clothes, pulling on his hunting armor and tossing his farm tunic on the floor carelessly. He grabs his trusty hunting bow off the back of his door, along with his new quiver of Dwarven arrows, bought off an adventurer who was passing through Falkreath on his way to Cyrodiil. He waves to his father and Siri as he whisks out the front door.

Beirir has been gone for about an hour when Thongar hears a knock on the front door. He rises, leaving Siri to her book, and answers it, wondering who it could be.

"Zaria!" he exclaims, a bit surprised. "Hello, what can I do for you today?"

The Redguard smiles back at Thongar. "It's good to see you, Thongar," she says. "Your boy ordered some ingredients from me about a week ago, and I've managed to procure them all for him." She holds out a heavy package wrapped in brown paper. "The Briar Hearts were a challenge to acquire, but you can tell him that everything's there—a couple of giants' toes, some canis root, blisterwort, and Hagraven feathers, along with a few different varieties of flowers and such."

Thongar accepts the package. "How much will all this cost?" he asks, but Zaria shakes her head, waving a hand dismissively.

"Beirir paid me up front for all of it, so it won't cost you a septim," she says. Then with a smile she takes her leave, walking back up the road toward her shop.

Thongar shuts the door, taking the alchemical ingredients back to Beirir's room. As he pushes the door open, he notices that Beirir's trunk sits slightly open, and makes a beeline for it. He might as well put the ingredients where no sunlight can compromise them.

He opens the lid and places the package in the trunk. He is about to shut the lid when one of Beirir's work tunics shifts slightly and something beneath catches his eye.

* * *

><p>Beirir sneaks through the underbrush silently, his shoes enchanted with a muffling spell. His hunting bow is in one hand, and he uses the other to push low-hanging foliage out of the way.<p>

He finally sights the deer he has been stalking. It is a small, sickly-looking male, but it will have more than enough meat to feed his family for the next few days—longer, too, if they preserve it. Beirir prefers to pick off the small ones, anyway: he feels it is the natural order of things.

He draws near, crouching down, hiding in the dense underbrush of the Falkreath woods. Pulling an arrow from his quiver, he pulls the string taut, waiting for the deer to present him its side.

A sudden hand on his shoulder startles him, and he releases the arrow instinctively. The shaft thuds into the buck's side and the animal, wounded badly, begins to run. Beirir whirls about angrily, only to find himself face to face with his father.

He had been a mischievous youth, much to his parents' chagrin. After his mother's death, his father became a much more serious man; he can recall many times when his father has been upset at his actions, but he cannot remember a time before when his father has looked this furious.

"Da?" he asks, confused. "Da, what is it?"

Thongar's face is a deep red, and a vein is evident on his forehead. When Beirir sees what his father holds in his hands, the younger Nord blanches, dropping his bow in shock.

"Explain this to me," his father says, his voice a deadly calm. He holds Beirir's black and red armor in one hand, and his glowing red dagger in the other.

For once in his life, Beirir is at a loss for words.

"Explain to me why you, my _son_, have the armor of the _Dark Brotherhood_ stashed away in your room." Thongar's eyes burn with anger and sadness as he watches his son, his Beirir, fumbling, trying to come up with something.

"Da, it's—it's not what you think!"

"Is this where all of that money came from?" Thongar asks angrily. "Has it been blood money keeping my farm afloat?"

"Da, please!" Beirir steps forward, and is horrified to see his father back away.

"How could you do this?" Thongar is practically yelling at his son. "How could you think that this—_this _—was…oh, Talos help me…" Thongar drops his son's armor and the dagger, bringing his hands to his face. "How have I failed so as a father?"

"Listen to me!" Beirir steps forward again, seizing his father's shoulders. "Da, it's not what you think. I'm not a murderer! What I do…" he falters, his eyes dropping to the ground. It takes a few moments before he finds his voice once more. "People like Ergnir," he whispers. "People who kill without regard for the people it affects. People who commit heinous acts and escape with their lives, their freedom, their reputations unscathed…these people deserve to die, father! I am the hand of justice!"

Thongar looks at his son for a moment, and Beirir isn't sure what to make of the look in his eyes. His heart flutters hopefully—perhaps his father will see things his way—but Thongar looks away, and when his eyes finally meet Beirir's once more, they are cold and empty, and Beirir knows what his father is about to say.

"I am going to take Siri into town this afternoon, to have her fitted for new armor at Lod's," Thongar says, his voice as cold as his gaze. Suddenly the man looks much older than he is. "You have that long to get your things out of my house."

Beirir's eyes widen in horror.

"But what about Siri?" he cries, feeling as though his heart has been torn from his chest. Thongar turns away.

"You are dead to me, boy," he says. "And so shall you be to her. If you ever come near her again, I will see you off to the chopping block myself for your crimes." As he stalks off through the forest, Beirir hears him call one last thing over his shoulder, and the young man falls to the ground, broken.

"I am glad your mother is not alive to see you today."


	11. 27 to 28 Morning Star, 4E 195

**27 Morning Star, 4E 195**

As the late afternoon sun sinks steadily toward the horizon, Siri finds herself standing by Lod's forge as the large Nord takes measurements. A mannequin stands nearby, boasting a set of leather armor that has yet to be tailored to the young Nord's body.

Siri likes Lod a lot. She knows that Beirir has been doing work for him, and she can't wait until her father will let her learn how to use a forge, too. When she was younger, she would come watch Lod working the metal, enjoying the rhythmic sound of hammer striking steel and the hiss of steam as he dunked red hot swords in water.

"Okay Siri," he says, "step down and put on this armor so we can get it fitted properly."

After much cinching of belts and some more hammering, trimming, and sewing, Siri stands before the mirror, smiling happily at her reflection. She wants to get home immediately and show off her new armor so Beirir can see it. Tomorrow she will wear it bear hunting with him.

She follows her father home eagerly, running around in the trees off the path and picking lots of flowers for Beirir. She knows he likes to make potions, and there are lots of nightshade plants around. She carefully plucks one flower off each plant, making sure to leave plenty intact in case other people need them too, then skips ahead to keep up with her da.

They arrive home, and Thongar opens the door. Neither of them hears the creaking of Beirir's window or the swift feet disappearing into the night. Siri looks about curiously, wondering where her brother is. He should have been back with dinner by now.

"Da," she asks, "where is Beirir?"

* * *

><p>Beirir stands outside the window, his hand pressed to the windowsill as he leans closer, desperate to hear Siri's voice one last time before he must disappear forever. The question is like a dagger to his heart, and the silence afterward is deafening. Thongar doesn't know what to say to his daughter; the man has never been a good liar, unlike his son, and he stands before the fireplace, looking sadly at the ground until he is preempted by a knock on the door.<p>

He watches as the scene he has orchestrated plays out before his eyes. Thongar opens the door, and a young, blonde woman in leather armor—much like Siri's—stands there, an Orcish bow and Dwarven arrows strapped to her back.

"Are you Thongar?" she asks. He nods his silent assent, wondering what this stranger wants with him.

Suddenly his eyes fall on a set of farm clothes that are splattered with gore and rent apart in the chest and back. He has to hand it to his son—the boy doesn't overlook a detail.

"I found this in the woods," she says. "One of the townsfolk recognized these clohes as your son's. I'm sorry, sir," she continues in her silky voice, "but your son is dead. I would have brought you the remains…if there'd been anything left to bring."

Tears well up in Thongar's eyes, and he asks the woman at the door to leave the clothes on the wood-chopping block outside before thanking her and shutting the front door.

Siri looks up at her father, her face a mixture of apprehension and suspicion. Beirir can tell from his place at the window that Siri didn't hear Astrid's words, and he can see on Thongar's face that the man is having trouble lying to his daughter.

"Siri…" he begins tentatively, before clearing his throat and forcing some strength into his voice, "your brother…is dead."

He watches her frown at first, skeptical. She doesn't believe him.

"Looks like a bear got the best of him, or maybe a pack of wolves," the man continues, his confidence increasing as he speaks.

Beirir watches Siri as she stands and runs to her room, trying to hide the tears that have sprung up in her eyes.

Thongar watches her go, heartbroken at having to lie so cruelly to his own daughter. He curses his son for putting him in this situation.

Beirir has seen all he can take. Backing away from the house, he melts into the forest, gliding silently back to the Falkreath Sanctuary.

* * *

><p><strong>28 Morning Star, 4E 195<strong>

Siri doesn't sleep very well, despite giving it her best effort. She tosses and turns, and as the hours pass she gives up, instead lighting a candle and wandering to her bookshelf. It is packed with books that he gave her, books that he wanted her to read. She lets her fingers glide along the spines of the books until they settle upon one they like: she pulls out _The Incident at Necrom_. Tonight she wants to read about Massitha and her incredible illusion skills. Someday, if she studies hard enough, maybe she can master the things Beirir has—no, had—learned.

She loses herself in the riveting tale of the adventurers' battle against the vampires. When she reaches the end, she relishes in Massitha's revenge, and wonders, as she always does, how Osmic and Nitrah will react when they realize that their precious gold is gone.

* * *

><p>Dawn breaks, and Siri jolts awake. <em>The Incident at Necrom<em> lies beside her head, the candle on her bedside table long since burned to nothing after she fell asleep. She listens for the sounds of her father's footsteps around the house, or of some sign that he is working in the yard already. But she hears only the early morning birdcalls and the breezes rustling through the trees.

Quietly she slips out of bed, sneaking through the house, and pushes open her father's door. He is still asleep, which is unusual—every day he rises with the sun, if not before it, to begin a long day of work on the farm.

Siri tiptoes across the floor of the main room, opening the front door as silently as possible and stepping out into the morning sun. She wants to see his clothes for herself—the ones that he died in.

She hurries over to the wood-chopping block, and immediately senses that something is amiss. If Beirir was torn apart, like the lady at the door had claimed, then his clothes should have been almost shredded beyond recognition. Instead, there are three large gashes in the fabric on the front of his shirt, and three on the back. The roughspun farm clothes are soaked in gore, and Siri feels her eyes burn as she attempts to repress the hot tears that threatened to escape. The clothes are a horrifying sight, but she can't shake the feeling that someone had not told her the whole truth.

She stands up and walks inside, a feeling of numbness settling upon her. For the first time in her life she feels truly lost.


End file.
